“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Saturday, October 6, 2018
They carry no identification
The lost souls could not
have been
-strayed-
unwillingly taken
from their way,
meaning-intention.
Did I mention
they found Us
in sad shapes too,
(round bodies in square
boxes),
what to do
about maps that don't make a clear path through
tough terrain
& letters that refuse to column, justify, paragraph
or add up to cents?
I swear atop the nameless grave,
I saw the spirits, the others
looking away, must have been
confused by their own disparate
directions toward the destination
all call
'Home'.
There was always more than one way
there and back,
although there never stayed the same.
The tree markers,
bleed and breathe,
resembling each other,
unlike the stone
every body was required
to find
a building for the soul.
Painting by George Elgar Hicks, 'Gypsy girl' c. 1899 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
Time's up
The two women acted tough,
forgetting their lady-like roles,
trying to win a popularity contest
without a prize,
and as petty little ladies often do,
they threw a-round the word "Best"
like a dodgeball.
But women can jump in heels,
can see behind and see through
costumes.
Make-up is removable.
****************************
The gentleman was gifted but
he knew the charges were coming,
soon. He would owe more than he had.
Hands on the trigger.
His desk is packed up in a box
that sits dutifully like a dog
by his dull loafers. Emails erased,
trash emptied, a final scan a-round
a corner window office
formerly occupied by a-round peg
seeming to be a dull square. Any body
could hold his chair. Professional,
calculating and an all a-round good guy
with a giant fear of the female,
her articulation, his worst case
just dis-missed due to conflicting
interests in gender roles and their
unjust entitlement or oppression-
he wouldn't say.
*************************
The young boss man is full of vim,
vigor, rigor and righteousness.
Bless his greedy hands clutching the reins
of his tall steed. He tramples the herd,
whipping them into his desired geometry.
Only now he found,
there was nobody a-round to
blame for missed fortunes, for the gaping
holes, balls rolling, for getting in his way.
Elders eyed another path,
an alternate pace, a safe place to
participate without giving away
experience.
*******************
The company decided to set the price
as high as the bar
could be raised,
so the product always hovered
just out of reach.
The company did not discount
the value of free advertising,
disregarding all costs.
****************
The free world leader
traded his hefty income
for a chance to control
the immeasurable,
to push the ethereal agenda,
to take a title already under copy-
right, to hear himself proclaim,
denounce, hear his own voice
and believe the words
were enough to fill empty bellies
not just heads.
The leader chases his tail
and demands we follow a-long
the lines
what comes a-round
goes on to repeat itself,
itself, the same as
his 'huge' following.
***********
Insurance, like promises
does not provide tangible compensation
unless a claim has been made
on total losses.
We must be living
to learn.
The finest print
excludes all the
preceding liabilities.
******
A reaction is a result,
the equivalent of
a resolution.
***
The movement
already occurred.
**
We just witnessed-
A passive act.
*
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Montgomery Street Cleaning
The German poet, bartender, magician, wanderer, playwright, refugee, and performer
who was Exiled in Vienna
arrived at the States United in 1933.
Uniting people was a thing in the thirties.
She had drive. She was a hitchhiker. It took her places
she had never been before.
In 1952 she stopped.
In 1952 she stayed around
because of the fog.
Because of the fog, she left
no more. Set up a shop with no-where’s to sell
on Montgomery Street,
1010 or in the closet -1014
in North Beach on the hills of San Francisco
where All the artists cranked
Out-
Work-
Inspiration
with little more than smoke and mirrors
they beat the Underdogs.
Panned dirt. Found gold.
The difference between street level lingo
and horned poetic motifs.
Looking back now about it All,
she said the shower was the best, it was
on the roof. After a rowdy, stinky night
she would disrobe in the Pacific Bay air
and sacrifice her body to hot beads
pelting her thick Austrian skin under New York neon gas,
atop sirens and broken glasses rolling below.
The steam from her body mixed with the fog in the air
exchanged vows, made love to each other there
with ruth standing in the middle in
all lower cases, cleansed.
She rose above the ruth-less-ness of it All
below her. She sticks out her thumb, finally
making the last word a gesture
of straighter lines and mist ends.
She looks a head, she looks be hind and she finds All is again
circularity, repetition, rhythm,
and heart beats bumming free rides to the top.
Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
Text after image:
"The bench to remember George Sterling is on a San Francisco hill that commands the Golden Gate Sterling: Tribute By Idwal Jones(S. F. Examiner, November 18, 1926) GEORGE STERLING, touching on his fifty-seventh year, and feeling wearied turned his face to the wall and died. He quitted this life from his little room in the Bohemian Club, and with no more regret than a bird quitting a twig. This was somewhere between 7 o’clock of Tuesday night and noon yesterday. No mat-ter when. For the curtain had fallen on the drama of San Francisco’s Bohemia in which he had been master of revelry for two golden and charming decades. The Dionysian had drunk the cup to the lees, and found the end of life bitter. The reason for living was past finding out. He said good-by to no one. To say good-by would have caused his friends grief. They are many, and they all wept, for he was an exquisite poet, and a charming and loyal friend. I last saw him two weeks ago. We had walked arm in arm through dense fog at midnight, and we..."
Monday, September 11, 2017
The Spies like Us
Confess?
Yes, I made it all up.
All of me that is-
whom I thought others could see
who I was
supposed to be, it was all me.
I suppose I owe
a debt to society, hand
manmade anxieties, cultured milk, hormones
and other treated things thought to help
growth by imagination and fermentation.
I coincide with these memories relived anew, you know
dwelt on the detailed fantastical, adorning
all embroidery and embellishments, lacy
fine threads that make pretty.
We are all make believe
and under cover, ourselves in hiding.
The body still
occupies us.
Painting by John Downman, Robert, Duke of Normandy in prison (1779) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, March 24, 2017
Origination
This house has tile floors, no plush carpeting -that is the cold hard truth.
I cannot drink soda or alcohol.
My body craves salmon and vegetables;
fruit in the summer, cabbage in the winter.
Potatoes are best not fried.
I don’t have extra fat, or change, or time, or
extra-ordinary investments in status.
I do not own a pet, but a certain grey cat thinks he owns me.
I have been blessed with no religion.
I like water. I am not married. I love the children
I was fortunate enough to support-unconditionally.
I do not chit-chat or pretend, I do not have a group of Best (Fake) Friends.
I don’t make predictions or apple pie very well, neither of which are really true.
Celebrity is maniacal and silly,
the practice of politics are dumb diversion tricks,
making bunnies is easy, that is not magic.
I use mirrors for safety. There is a dusty one over my
bedroom vanity. I do not like to make-up my face(s),
although costumes can be fun at a party.
I do not like parties or gambling.
I am gainfully not an employee,
I make no money and have more than I need.
Luxury is not the same 'Thing' to me, it is not a tangibility.
Slang, yeah, I find myself speaking in some art, not knowing what it means,
it sounds like beauty and looks Interesting or foreign.
I am not shrinking, I am still growing. I am not afraid of death.
I am just passing through.
Quietly as can be...
Will I pass port?
Image credit John James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Image credit John James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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